


The Café Elsinore

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arguing, Bisexual Character, Coffee Shops, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Male Character, Genderbending, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Past Relationship(s), Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the capital of Denmark is now a café, Barnardo thinks the espresso machine is haunted, and Hamlet is secretly fond of pumpkin spice lattés (and not-so-secretly fond of Horatio).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Café Elsinore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renaissance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/gifts).



> Most of the characters aren't based on any actors/adaptations in particular, with a few notable exceptions. Horatio is played, in my head, by a de-aged Peter de Jersey, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are based on the characterisations in the [2013 Sport for Jove production](http://www.sportforjove.com.au/media-gallery/lightbox/70/133), but genderbent, and with a Guildenstern of Indian descent.

            The Café Elsinore had been in Hamlet’s family for generations – two, to be precise. It had been through a lot over the years; but nothing it had ever seen lived up to the fantastic way Hamlet had of sequestering himself away in the corner booth at the back, plugging in his headphones, pulling out a notebook or a copy of _Frankenstein,_ and settling in for a nice long _brood._ His dad was dead (and he was _dealing_ with it, thank you very much), and now his stupid uncle had gone and taken over the shop while Hamlet had been caught up in an essay about Kubrick. Not to mention that awful _marriage._ The wedding had been perfect, of course – if there was one thing Hamlet could never fault his mum on, it was sheer style – but Hamlet had hated it nonetheless. Didn’t they have _any_ respect for the dead?

            “Hey Dracula, how’s it hanging?”

            Hamlet scowled, and reflexively dragged his green tea closer. “Count Dracula is described as an old man with a white moustache and hair on his palms,” he grumbled. “I don’t look anything like him.”

            “What should I call you then,” Laertes smirked, leaning on the chair opposite – “Edward?”

            Hamlet’s face scrunched in confusion. _“What?”_

            The sheer joy in Laertes’ face could only mean trouble. “Dude, you haven’t heard of _Twilight?”_ he said, with a disbelieving laugh. Hamlet only frowned further.

            “The sun sets every evening, Laertes,” he sniped, “are you calling me an idiot?”

            The bell at the front of the shop trilled, and Laertes glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward over the chair.

            “Don’t you fucking touch my sister, okay?” he growled, and strode away to the counter.

            Hamlet actually _spluttered._

            “I haven’t been anywhere near your sister!” he called after him. “And don’t think I don’t know what you were doing in Paris, by the way – _‘fencing’,_ _is that what they’re calling it these days?”_

            At which point his mother reached the table.

 

            “Hamlet –”

            “Mum, you don’t _understand –”_

            “Hamlet, listen to your mother –”

            “And I’m not even _talking_ to you, _dad.”_

            “Hamlet, don’t take that tone with him, you know he means well.”

            “Mum, I _told_ you,” Hamlet whined, “I don’t want to have lunch with you and your gross boyfriend!”

            “Hamlet, please,” sighed Gertrude, “just do as you’re told, for once. Would you prefer I invited your _girlfriend_ along to keep us company?”

            Hamlet made a face. “Eugh, _mum,_ she’s not my _girlfriend!”_ he cried. “Have you been talking to Laertes again? You know why he wants leave from the café to go back to France, right? Bet you anything he’s got four women, two men and at _least_ one non-binary person just _waiting_ for him in Paris.”

            By this time, Claudius had begun massaging his temples with both hands. Gertrude’s face was sympathetic, if tight.

            “Hamlet, we’re not here to talk about Laertes, or Ophelia.”

            “God, mum, can you just leave me alone?” said Hamlet, slumping in his seat and throwing his shoulders forward. “I’m trying to read!”

            Gertrude’s expression had grown fixed. “Honey,” she said, slow and steady – “you’ve read Shelley dozens of times, don’t you think you can put her down for just a moment?”

            “She’s a _literary genius,_ mum,” Hamlet replied, thrusting his chin into the air, “I can’t just _put her down._ Besides –” He pursed his lips and studiously avoided Claudius’ gaze. “She’s helping me _cope.”_

            Whatever kind sigh Gertrude had been about to give, it was drowned out by Claudius, who heaved a grand and empathetic breath and sat forward in his chair, leaning on the table as if to grasp Hamlet’s hand with his own. Hamlet withdrew his copy of _Frankenstein,_ both hands clasped firmly about its worn and annotated pages.

            “Hamlet,” said Claudius, over-kind and over-close. “I know your father’s death still hurts, but it was six months ago, and you must know – we both lost our father when we weren’t much older than you. It’s the way of things, I’m afraid. It’s very sweet of you to stay so loyal to his memory, but I wish you’d be a bit kinder now and then.”

            He smiled, and Hamlet saw maggots in the man’s teeth.

            “Please don’t go to that film camp of yours, dear,” said Gertrude, in a soft and glittering voice. “We really wish you’d stay here with us for a while.”

 

            The only good thing about being the son of the proprietor was that it meant he could stay in the shop as long as he liked. It was well after closing, but Hamlet was _inspired,_ he couldn’t just put down his pen and walk away, not when he was so caught up in the intricacies of language and expression and thought! _Oh, that this too, too solid flesh_ – maybe that should be ‘sullied’? – _would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!_

            Marcella had shut down the machines, and moved the leftover pastries into the fridge, and wiped down every table but his. She knew the drill, as every one of the staff did by now: if Hamlet looked like he’d hang around for a while, they just left him, knowing he’d let himself out. Or whoever came in the next morning would find him passed out on the table, and then he could just be chivvied upstairs and left alone for the day. They weren’t complaining.

 _Hyperion to a satyr,_ oh, that was good! Classical references were always a nice touch, _if_ they were handled properly. Hamlet scribbled and crossed-out and tossed aside, until he came back around to _I to Hercules,_ and crowed inwardly with triumph. He nearly wrote _Frailty, thy name is woman!,_ but decided that was a bit of an over-generalisation, and left it out. He was nearly crying by the end, at the beauty and the release, and something huge and unacknowledgable beneath.

 _But break, my heart,_ he finished, and could have groaned with the weariness of it all – _for I must hold my tongue._

            The front door rattled and creaked, and the bell tinkled. The street lights outside had come on; Café Elsinore always closed early on weekends.

            “Hey Hamlet,” said a mild voice. “You okay?”

            “Fine, I’m fine,” he grumbled, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes until he realised that _he recognised that voice._ He shot out of his seat like a bullet. _“Horatio!”_

            The poor little physics major had always seemed small to Hamlet, but now he was practically _tiny,_ swamped by Hamlet’s long skinny limbs as the boy jumped and danced and gripped him close.

            “Oh my God, Horatio, where have you _been?_ No don’t answer that, I know, _obviously,_ you’ve been studying, but _oh my God, Horatio,_ where have you _been,_ what are you _doing here?!”_ He peppered kisses across Horatio’s forehead and cheeks, and refused to stand still long enough for a proper pash.

            “I heard about your dad,” said Horatio, with a quiet crease between his brows. “And your mum.”

 _“Eugh.”_ Hamlet pressed his frown to where Horatio’s jaw met his neck. “Pretty sure they were just trying to save money. I mean, what else were they gonna do with all those leftovers from the funeral, right? What would dad have said…”

            Horatio frowned, and pressed his warm hands to Hamlet’s ribs – under his cardigan, but over the skivvy. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked in a soft voice.

            “God, what are you, my mother?” Hamlet groaned, twining his arms around Horatio’s neck. Horatio laughed.

            “I should hope your mum doesn’t benefit quite as much from your mouth as I do,” he smirked, kissing that same beneficial instrument for not nearly long enough. “Talk to me,” he said instead, ignoring Hamlet’s needy lips. “I wanna know what you’ve been doing all semester. Had any more life-changing Swinton experiences?”

            From that close, Hamlet’s glower was just an intensely serious blur.

 _“Every_ experience with Tilda Swinton is life-changing.”

            Horatio laughed without mockery, and kissed Hamlet’s mouth, just once.

            “Barnardo gave me a lift from the airport,” he said. “Apparently the espresso machine is haunted.”

            Hamlet threw the offending machine a glare. “He just doesn’t know how to boil milk properly,” he grumbled. “I tried telling him it was an _art,_ but he wouldn’t believe me.”

            The smile that touched Horatio’s lips was like the sun.

            “Any more incidents with Polonius and the pronouns?”

            “None so far,” Hamlet sighed, “but it’s only been a month. Give it a few more weeks and I wouldn’t be totally surprised if he forgets. _Again.”_

            Horatio’s smile grew. “So, I know I still have a job, since your new _dad_ was so kind to let me keep it over semester,” he said, tugging Hamlet closer at the waist, “but do I still have the flat upstairs? Y’know, books, toothbrush, that sort of thing…”

            Hamlet groaned and rolled his eyes, and said “You _know_ you do, that was part of the agreement when you left,” at the same time as Horatio insistently added the word _“Bed.”_ Hamlet blinked, and repeated after him.

            “Bed?”

            “Is my bed still upstairs?”

            Hamlet sputtered a little. “Um – yes, yes of course it is, why –”

            “See, I thought it would be,” Horatio mused, “but the weird thing is, we’re not actually _in_ it yet, and I figured we would be, by now.”

            Hamlet’s eyes went wide as he figured it out.

            “Thought something might’ve happened to it,” Horatio finished with a smirk.

            It was a good thing that Horatio had locked the front door when he came in, because Hamlet had no interest in closing up shop before getting to the broad, luscious bed upstairs as quickly as possible.

 

            It was nine-thirty in the morning, with the line almost to the door, and Hamlet was sitting in the corner booth, nursing a cup of herbal tea and sewing a leather elbow patch on a blazer he’d found in Vinnies, and snickering to himself.

            “Dad.”

            “Don’t go saying things you shouldn’t, and don’t _act_ before you _think.”_

            “Dad, _please.”_

            “Keep your friends close, yes, but for heaven’s sake, Laertes, don’t be so _familiar_ with everyone!”

            The rolled eyes were extending beyond Laertes in the line, until they reached the point that Polonius’ diatribe became inaudible and the frustration turned into anger.

            “Dad –”

 _“Especially_ your potential sexual partners, I know what you’re like – I do hope you encourage safe practices –”

            Laertes looked horrified. _“Dad!”_

            Ophelia – standing next to Hamlet’s booth with cappuccino already in hand – was almost doubled over with silent laughter.

            “Don’t go getting into a fight every night, but if you _do,_ make it one they’ll _remember.”_

            “Dad, I’ll be practising _fencing,_ do you honestly think I’ll be focusing on nightly _pub brawls?”_

            “I’m giving you an allowance, yes,” Polonius droned on, heedless of Laertes’ arguments, “but that doesn’t mean you should spend it all! You have enough clothes for a lifetime already, don’t go mad again with Parisian fashions!”

            “Dad, seriously, my plane leaves in three hours, I should’ve been at the check-in ages ago, will you _please just take my order and move on –”_

            “And if it comes to it, you can _call me,_ you know, Laertes,” Polonius continued, “I don’t want you borrowing any money.” He turned almost to the till, the drawer hanging open in waiting, before darting his attention back up to his son. “And don’t lend any of it either!” he cried. “I know what you’re like with your money, but you can’t just throw it away on pleasant strangers!”

            “Dad, _please!”_

            “If nothing else, son –” Leaning across the counter, Polonius grasped his son by the arm, to the audible groans of bystanders. “Be true to yourself,” he said with sudden passion. “That way, you’ll be false to no one.”

            Laertes had finally given up his protestations, and simply stared, with despairing, long-suffering patience.

            “Long black was it?” Polonius asked. Somewhere in line, someone screamed. Ophelia had finally managed to compose herself, however, and, still standing beside Hamlet, was staring at her brother and father with the same expression of simultaneous patience and despair as Laertes, with perhaps a few kilos more amusement.

            “I don’t believe it,” she said sadly, half to Hamlet and half to herself. “He is an _actual fortune cookie stereotype.”_

            “I commiserate,” Hamlet mumbled. “My new dad could be a politician with the amount of contrivance in his speech.”

            Laertes came toward them, coffee in hand and on harried feet.

            “Right, I’m off,” he said to Ophelia, leaning in to exchange a kiss on the cheek. “Love you. Remember what I said about sparkle-boy here.” He looked up, and the expression on his face turned almost to terror. “Shit. Bogey, ten o’clock. I’ll Skype you when I get to the hotel!”

            He all but ran from the shop, at the same time as Polonius came up behind them from around the end of the counter.

            “Sparkle-boy?” he repeated. “What did he say to you?”

            Ophelia rolled her eyes hugely. “He means Hamlet. And it was just some more warnings against sleeping with him.”

            They both ignored Hamlet’s spluttering, confused cries.

            “He’s right, you know,” Polonius began – and was immediately cut off by Ophelia, who turned to face him.

            “Are you _kidding me?”_ she said. “Dad, we never even _dated._ We slept together _once_ before he realised he preferred that scientist friend of his –”

            “His _name,”_ Hamlet sneered over her, “is _Horatio.”_

            “My one-hundred-metre freestyle is almost up to time get into the _nationals,”_ Ophelia was saying,“my _self-run, self-instituted flower arrangement business_ is actually starting to pick up, and all anyone can talk to me about is _Hamlet the bloody Dane!”_

            Hamlet pouted up at her back. “Excuse you, I’m only _one-quarter Danish,_ why does everyone still call me that?”

            Polonius had put on his best (and, unfortunately, entirely sincere) expression of fatherly concern. “Ophelia, we’re only _worried_ about you,” he soothed. Ophelia, in turn, looked like she might melt from exasperation.

 _“I don’t need you to be,”_ she insisted. “So, what I’m going to do right now, is I’m going to _leave_ this boy you’re all so worried about –”

            “I’m _twenty-three_ Ophelia, I’m not a _boy –”_

            “– and I’m going to go down to _my shop_ and run _my business_ while you all fret your selves to death here over my _sex life.”_

            With a strangled groan, she turned on her heel and left. Polonius stood in his place for a moment, staring after her; then shrugged, and ambled back behind the counter, where Barnardo was heroically manning both espresso machines by himself.

 

            Winter was on the horizon, and the shop had very large windows. When Horatio – woken by the sound of movements downstairs and creeping through the kitchen with a cricket bat – stepped into the front room, he could almost _see_ the frostbite spreading over his bare toes. There was a dark figure sitting in the shadows of one of the booths along the wall – also barefoot, in a hoodie and trackpants – with a bottle of vodka on the table before them and what looked like a scattered pile of pills beside it.

            Horatio wished he didn’t know who it was.

            “… Hamlet?”

            He said nothing, not until Horatio had eased himself into the seat opposite and set down his makeshift weapon. When he did speak, it was only to mumble, “’s cold tonight.”

            Horatio wanted so badly to hold his hands, where they trembled on either side of a pill bottle Horatio recognised from when he’d sprained his ankle the year before.

            “Yeah, well,” he said quietly, “it is past midnight.”

            Hamlet sniffed, and swallowed, and said nothing.

            “Have you –” Horatio tried to say, but could not bring himself to further shatter Hamlet’s blank expression. He forced himself on. “Did you take any?”

            Hamlet expelled a harsh breath. “No,” he sighed along it, “no, I didn’t. Couldn’t even bring myself to –”

            Unable to hold back any longer, Horatio raised his hands above the table and reached across, pausing enough for Hamlet to protest if he wanted. He did not, and Horatio clasped his cold and quivering fingers in his palms.

            “It’s okay,” said Hamlet quickly, “it’s nothing, really, I just –”

            “It’s not nothing,” Horatio replied, so calm and kind that it countered every argument. “I didn’t realise it was this bad again, and I’m sorry for that.”

            Hamlet said nothing. Horatio let him.

            A few cars hissed by outside. The moon was faint.

            Horatio swallowed.

            “Please don’t go,” he whispered to cold vodka and colder eyes.

            “My life is worthless,” said Hamlet, shrugging, to the table, “my soul – ambiguously existent. What does it matter? I don’t know what to do.”

            “Then let me tell you.” The coffee machines ticked with settling metal, and the glass in the display cases shone dully behind Horatio’s dark and earnest face. “Listen. You _will not go.”_

            “So confident,” said Hamlet, with just a hint of sarcasm. Horatio’s lips twitched.

            “I mean it,” he said. “And I have a cricket bat to back me up.”

            Hamlet’s breath was a hush and a lull.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I shouldn’t have –”

            “Don’t be,” Horatio assured, holding his hands more firmly now. “You did nothing wrong, you don’t need to apologise. I only want to help you.”

            “Will you though?” Hamlet asked, only half rhetorical.

            “I promise.”

            “Swear it.”

            “I swear.”

            “Do you?”

_“I swear.”_

            Hamlet’s expression might have broken Horatio’s heart had he not seen it before.

            “And you –” Hamlet’s voice cracked, but he mumbled on – “you won’t tell anyone?”

            “Not a soul,” Horatio promised.

            “Swear it?”

            Horatio leaned over the table with an entreating gaze. His whisper was itself a secret. _“I swear.”_

 

            Horatio cleared the table, and took Hamlet to bed, and dutifully kept his secrets.

 

            It was as if fate had decided to strike a particularly cruel blow when two familiar, vastly differing faces greeted Hamlet as he entered the café. _“Hamleeeeeeet!”_ was the cry of one, behind the counter, from the other side of which came an intrinsically-deprecating smile along with the polite expression of Hamlet’s name.

            He plastered a smile on his face, and advanced.

            “Ros!” he said in greeting “Gilly! What are you doing here?” His cheeks already hurt from affectation.

            “Oh, just thought we could make a bit of money on the side, eh Gill?” Ros nudged her girlfriend on the shoulder across the counter, eliciting an embarrassed laugh. Hamlet noticed that Ros’ beanie hadn’t changed since high school.

            “Yeah, yeah,” Gilly was adding, “and it’s right near the new firm I’m working at, so that’s good.”

            “Oh!” said Hamlet, feigning interest. “So you’re an actual lawyer now?”

            “Yes – well, no – ah –”

            She hadn’t changed either.

            “Interning!” Gilly finally finished. “I’m uh, interning, at a new place, still getting my degree.” She added a short, half-laugh, and fell silent, tugging at the hem of her too-big pencil skirt.

            “What’ll it be then?” Ros grinned, unperturbed.

            Hamlet affected deep thought. He hummed, and frowned, and stared at the price board. “Do we have any free trade?”

            Ros – entirely predictably – suffered a minor explosion. “Man, I’ve been _saying!”_ she cried. “This place relies _too much_ on exploitative products! Not to mention all the processing some of those things go through, man, your pastry chef should’ve gone organic _years_ ago!”

 _“I heard that!”_ came Marcella’s voice, floating in from the kitchen, which Ros didn’t appear to heed.

            “All these unnecessary extras, man,” she was saying, “I don’t know why we think we need them! All-natural’s the way to go, y’know what I’m saying?”

            Hamlet widened his eyes, and nodded, humming in over-sincere agreement. He added, in the exact same tone: “My parents hired you, didn’t they?”

            Gilly’s entire body stiffened as if she’d been dealt a minor electric shock.

            “What? No! What? Why would you –” Her scoff was entirely see-through. “Of course not, why would you say that?” She laughed again, a sound almost painful to Hamlet’s ears.

            “Come on, admit it,” Hamlet goaded, “they did.”

            Ros shot a frozen, terrified glance at Gilly, and said nothing.

            “Right,” Hamlet sighed. “One espresso please, no milk, just froth, with a dash of hazelnut syrup, _but not too much._ Got it?”

            “Whoa, whoa, slow down there mate,” said Ros, peering at the monitor as if technology was new to her. Gilly rolled her eyes and walked all the way around to the waist-high swing door to behind the counter so she could tug Ros out of the way by the apron-strings. She filled in the order with a smile and an apology, and a muttered, “I’m not even on _shift_ today.”

            Hamlet smirked at the pair, and sought out Horatio, taking a lunch break in the back corner.

            “I don’t know _why_ Claudius thought it was a good idea to hire those two,” he complained, nudging Horatio aside to fit them both on the same bench. “God forbid it was my _mum’s_ decision.”

            Horatio shrugged, and swallowed a mouthful of bread. “So long as they don’t get distracted making out in the kitchen, they should be fine.”

            Hamlet snorted. “As if Gill’d let herself get distracted at work.”

            “I dunno, Ros seems pretty persuasive…”

            They looked up to where Ros was begging a goodbye kiss from Gilly over the pastry display. She succeeded, and grinned wildly – white teeth in a bright white face – as Gilly fled the building, hiding behind her dark hair and pushing past a gently-smiling Polonius as she left. Hamlet groaned.

            “What’s _he_ doing here?” he muttered, hiding his face in Horatio’s shoulder. “I bet he’s coming to tell me the indie film society’s opened up again. As if I _didn’t know.”_

            “As if Ros isn’t a walking advertisement to the fact,” Horatio added, glancing pointedly at Ros’ conspicuous t-shirt. Polonius’ eye caught on them, and he ambled over with a grin on his face that spoke of inside knowledge.

            “Oh God, Horatio, he has, _he has.”_

            “Hamlet!” said Polonius, smiling, as he came to a halt before them. “I have news you might want to hear.”

            Horatio determinedly kept chewing.

            “Polonius,” Hamlet countered, _“I_ have news for _you!_ Did you know, there was this actor once, apparently, in Rome –”

            “Ah!” Polonius looked far too pleased. “That’s just what I was going to tell you about!” he said. “Those actors you like, those film people, they’ve come back to the city, to that old cinema of theirs!”

            Hamlet affected surprise and awe. _“Really?_ My gosh, I hadn’t heard about _this._ Horatio, quick, get your things, _those actors_ are back from tour and ready to party, my God! Who would’ve thought?”

            Horatio glared, and chewed, and said nothing.

 

            That night, Hamlet thundered his way up the stairs to Horatio’s flat after a night of 1960s French avant-garde and threw himself down on the couch next to where Horatio was sitting, watching _Mean Girls_ for perhaps the millionth time.

            “So I’ve been thinking,” Hamlet started, without preamble – “what if I make a short film about what Claudius did to the shop, right, but don’t make it _about_ the shop, like, y’know, make it about something _like_ the shop, _usurpation,_ that kinda thing; and I can show it in front my family and stuff and he can finally see what he did, y’know, finally _realise_ what he did and feel properly guilty about it – what do you think?”

            Horatio stared at him from across the couch.

            “I think that’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

            Hamlet pouted, and nicked the popcorn from Horatio’s lap.

            “Seriously,” Horatio continued, ignoring the film, “that’s worse than that time we decided to do shots all night and woke up too hungover to think.”

            Hamlet groaned, and slumped down on the sofa. “Please,” he moaned, “don’t remind me.”

            “So you remember how bad that idea was?” Horatio insisted. “Well this is worse.”

            “It can’t be _that_ much worse,” Hamlet protested, but Horatio overrode him.

            “No, no it’s worse.”

            “I just wanna prove that Claudius knows what he did, y’know? I wanna show him, really show him how guilty he should be –”

            Horatio raised his voice. _“Drop it,_ Hamlet,” he said, kicking him lightly on the ankle. “Bad idea. Trust me.”

            Hamlet scowled at him. He turned his attention to the screen and let a moment pass before muttering: “Not worse than the shots though.”

            “Oh, it’s worse than the shots!” Horatio immediately retorted. “Definitely, definitely worse than the shots!”

            Hamlet’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t argue again.

 

            Three days later, they were on the couch again; but this time, it was Horatio who joined Hamlet, and the film was _Melancholia._ Horatio sat with lips tight and gaze wary.

            “Hamlet,” he said, “could you turn the TV off for a minute?”

            “If you’re going to tell me Claudius is planning on keeping the café open late Thursday to Sunday,” Hamlet replied, not looking over, “I already know.”

            Horatio sucked his teeth for a moment. “It’s not about that,” he said carefully. “Would you – could you please just hit pause?”

            Plucking at the remote, Hamlet frowned at him, and rested his half-eaten bowl of instant mi goreng on his stomach. “You look weird,” he said. “What is it?”

            Horatio shifted closer, and took a deep breath. “I was… reviewing the security footage from last week,” he said. “Routine check, you know. And I um… caught your – uncle talking to Polonius.”

            Hamlet shrugged at him, and reached for his mi goreng again. “Yeah, so?” he said. “They’re old friends, they talk all the time.”

            “It was eleven at night and Polonius had Ophelia’s email open on his laptop.”

            Hamlet choked on his food and sat up, coughing and resting the bowl on the coffee table. _“What?”_ he cried. “What was he – does she _know_ about this?!”

            “Didn’t look like it,” Horatio said, biting his lip. “It was one of your old drunk emails from ages ago, before you slept together.”

            “Oh, Jesus…”

            “It gets worse.”

            “How can it get _worse?”_

            Horatio winced. “Ros and Gilly were there…”

            Hamlet looked like he might implode from apoplectic rage and mortification. “Are you _kidding me?!”_ he shouted. “I know he hired them to keep an eye on me, but _what the hell,_ man?”

            “God, I’m so sorry –” Horatio shifted closer on the couch, and took Hamlet’s hand between both of his own. “Look, I think –” he went on, as if treading on fine china; “I think your – _parents –”_

 _“Not_ parents,” Hamlet spat, “he’s not my dad!”

            “Your mum and Claudius, then,” Horatio corrected with a grimace, “your family, they’re – I think they’re getting worried about you.”

            “There’s nothing to _worry about,_ what are they –”

            Horatio’s eyes fell shut, and his head drooped, as if to kiss Hamlet’s hand. “Hamlet, there is,” he sighed, “you know there is.”

            When he looked up, Hamlet’s eyes were shining, and his mouth was screwed at the corners.

            “You said –” he started, and swallowed. “You said you’d _never_ tell, you promised –”

            “Oh, God,” Horatio sighed, “I didn’t, I swear, of course I didn’t,” he babbled, “but – they must have noticed something, they’re your _family,_ they might suspect… something, I don’t know what, but it’s –” He sighed, and his head dropped properly now, to kiss Hamlet’s fingers and wrist, then reach for his cheek. Hamlet, for his part, was starting to tremble, and his eyes remained wide and glassy, and fixed on Horatio’s form.

            “Look,” Horatio sighed, “I only want what’s best for you, you know that. And if you don’t want your family to know, I support that decision, I do. But if they suspect something, and try to get it out of you, it might hurt you even more.” His hand dropped to grip the side of Hamlet’s neck, then his shoulder, then his neck again. “Just know,” he said, his thumb brushing Hamlet’s jaw – “you should _know_ – Claudius might try something in the next few days. Ophelia’s privacy has probably been betrayed. Please, be careful, Hamlet.” He leaned in again, to kiss Hamlet’s bloodless brow. “Please, stay safe.”

 

            That night, Hamlet bled from his arms into the bathroom sink, and Horatio’s skin was stained darker with grief.

            “Why do we do it?” Hamlet whispered over shivering breaths, as Horatio prised the razorblade from his grasp with soft, steady hands. “Why do we stay when it’s all so – so –”

            Horatio breathed nothing against Hamlet’s collar, and silently judged whether it was worth driving to the hospital this time.

            “I don’t want to do it,” Hamlet hissed and sobbed into Horatio’s hair. “Please, please, I don’t want to _be.”_

 

            Horatio phoned Ophelia. By the time she arrived, Hamlet had melted into empty stares and quiescent arms. They cleaned the cuts, and wrapped them as best they could with the first aid kit in the kitchen. Horatio warned Ophelia about her father and Hamlet’s family, and as the sun crept back into the streets, they parted again, and Horatio pulled Hamlet into their bed to keep warm.

 

            “Did he _say_ anything about me?”

            Hamlet lay in bed on his side, his phone to his ear and Horatio’s arm draped over his waist. Horatio blinked awake behind him.

            “But they don’t know, they _can’t_ know!”

            “Who is it?” Horatio mumbled into Hamlet’s back.

            “’Phelia,” Hamlet answered over his shoulder. “Hm? Oh, no, ’Ratio just woke up, asked who I was talking to. And he thinks it’s because of _you?”_

            “Put’r on speaker,” Horatio slurred, sniffing and pressing his face between Hamlet’s shoulder blades. “Also, what _time_ is it?”

            “Bit before noon. Hey, I’m putting you on speaker, ‘kay?” Hamlet shifted, turning over under Horatio’s arm and jabbing at the screen of his mobile with his thumb. He dropped the phone between them on the bed as Ophelia’s voice came out.

            “Right, recap for Horatio,” she said: “Dad definitely suspects there’s something between me and Hamlet, which is stupid; I tried confronting him about the email thing, but he wouldn’t tell me anything; I talked to Gertrude this morning, managed to get that she’s worried about Hamlet; and just so you know, it’s nearly lunchtime and neither of you has shown your faces in the café, and I just had Ros in here saying Gilly’s in a right state, apparently they’re meant to be looking after you and Claudius is gonna kill them if something’s happened. You know what that means, right?”

            Horatio closed his eyes. “They suspect something’s wrong with Hamlet,” he sighed. “God, they’re not gonna ask you a thing about it,” he went on, opening his eyes to catch Hamlet with a significant glance, “you know that, right? If they think they have your best interests at heart, they could shove you into a psych ward and not think twice about it.”

             “I’m _fine,”_ Hamlet insisted. No one mentioned the night before. “I’ve got you two, anyway, haven’t I? I don’t need Ros and bloody Gil on my back, if mum wants me looked after why doesn’t she just talk to one of _you?”_

            “Well, you know what she thinks of your relationship with _me,”_ Ophelia grumbled. “Either I’m your future wife or I need to stay approximately six million and three miles away from you, I don’t think she’s decided. And everyone thinks Horatio’s useless since he was in Germany for a semester –”

            “Because it’s not like we have the internet or anything,” Hamlet muttered, with infinite spite.

            “Anyway,” Ophelia was saying. “I think dad’s convinced you’re lovesick over me, so maybe that might keep Claudius off your back for a bit…”

            “I bloody hope it does,” Hamlet spat. “Christ, the _bullshit_ they spout about us – let’s all just agree not to ever get married ever. To anyone. Maybe that’ll get them off their fixation. We’ll never get married, and everyone else can just stay as they are, and we’ll all just be fine – ‘cept Claudius, of course.”

            There was laughter in Ophelia’s voice. “And what are you going to do with him?”

            Hamlet snorted. “Ship him off to England or something? I dunno, but keeping him the hell away from here would be nice for a change.”

            They shared a brief, somewhat solemn chuckle, and Horatio leaned in to kiss Hamlet on the forehead.

            “Oh, _gross,”_ said Ophelia’s voice from between them, “I can hear that!”

            Horatio kissed Hamlet again, this time making it intentionally loud and sloppy.

            “Oh you two are _ridiculous!”_ Ophelia cried. “Look, get your arses out of bed, okay? Show your faces downstairs and reassure your mum you haven’t died in the night or something.”

            Unfortunately, when they’d showered and dressed and ‘shown their faces’, it was to find Polonius behind the counter – again abandoning Barnardo to work both espresso machines by himself – and Ros wiping tables with Gilly, on lunch-break, in tow.

            “Oh _Christ,”_ Hamlet muttered as they found a table, and Ros’ beanie started bobbing towards them over the crowd. “Horatio, please, just put me out of my misery before Ros gets over here and starts lecturing…”

            Horatio, however, frowned from across the table, his mouth going tight at the corners, and pressed his knee to Hamlet’s without a word.

            “So, you two took your time!” Ros cried as she reached their table. “Had a bit of _lie-in,_ did we?” She finished the sentence with a wink. Hamlet laughed weakly, and Gilly, a bit late on the uptake, did a completely horrifying imitation of a knowing leer. “We’ll get you two a couple of coffees, eh?”

            “Oh and, uh, Hamlet,” Gilly added.

            “Here it comes…” Hamlet muttered, nudging at Horatio’s toes with his own.

            “I think your dad’s a bit angry with you.”

            Hamlet stopped, stared at the table for a moment in bewilderment, then looked up. _“Angry?”_ he repeated, incredulous.

            “Yeah, I’m – I’m not sure what it’s about, but –” Gilly’s dark eyes were looking everywhere but at him. “He’s, uh, a bit worried about you? So’s your mum actually, they think you’ve been keeping something from them…?”

            Hamlet’s jaw was beginning to go hard. “Oh, and he’s _angry,_ is he?” he growled.

            “Look, Hamlet, please,” Gilly sighed, “don’t get upset, I’m just relaying a message –”

            “Do you _really think –”_

            But Horatio cut him off.

_“Hamlet.”_

            Hamlet looked over at him, breathing hard.

            “Don’t you think we might want to have this argument somewhere _other_ than the inside of a crowded café?”

            Horatio’s brow was sincere, and his eyes firm. Hamlet stared at him for a long moment, before huffing, and making to stand, pushing out from the booth.

            “Yes, all right,” he said, sharp and quick, “let’s do this _somewhere else,_ shall we, somewhere a little more _convenient –”_

            “Y— Your mum’s in the pantry, actually!” Ros burst out. “Um, Polonius was saying she wanted to talk to you, maybe you should –”

            “Fine!” Hamlet shouted; a few heads turned, but he paid them no heed, and only quietened at Horatio’s hand on his elbow. “Fine,” he repeated, quieter. “I’ll go talk to my _mother.”_ He turned as if to leave for the pantry beyond the kitchen, but spun at the last moment to lean back in to Ros and Gilly. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he hissed. “If my _uncle_ wants to know anything about me, he can _ask,_ and if he doesn’t get an answer he likes, he can bloody well accept that like any normal human being. You can’t try to play me like a fucking clarinet, you two, and expect me to sing all nice and sweet.”

            “Hamlet –” Horatio started, and Hamlet seemed somehow to splinter. His head dropped, and he let out an earth-shattering sigh.

            “Stay here, would you?” he asked, and his voice, suddenly, was quiet and empty, quaking over the words. “Keep these two out. I wanna talk to my mum.”

            Horatio’s dark, kind eyes were pools of sorrow as he watched the side of Hamlet’s face.

            “Yes, of course,” he said, in a soft voice. He kissed Hamlet’s cheek, and as Hamlet settled his shoulders and stalked out into the kitchen, Horatio turned to Ros and Gilly and said, still somehow kind: “I think it might be best if you guys leave him alone for a little bit…”

 

_“Well?”_

            Gertrude looked up from the various flours on the shelves with a tremulous smile as Hamlet came in.

            “Hamlet,” she said, “I want to talk to you about your father.”

            “My father’s _dead,”_ he spat in return. She pursed her lips.

            “You know I’m talking about Claudius,” she said, suddenly stern.

            “Oh, well, in _that_ case,” Hamlet drawled, “yes, let’s talk about my _uncle,_ sure.”

            “Hamlet, he’s worried about you,” Gertrude sighed. “We’re _both_ worried about you. I know I – and Claudius – haven’t always been there for you, but we’re your family, we know when something’s wrong. Ever since you came back from university you’ve been distant at best. Won’t you please tell us what’s wrong? Can we just talk about you?”

            Hamlet, all of a sudden was incensed. “No!” he snapped. “You know what? _No!_ How about you just keep your fucking distance when I’m _clearly_ asking for it, how about you accept that you’re not the only people in my life and let me talk to you when I’m _ready_ to talk to you, instead of forcing things out of me I have no interest in sharing?!”

            “Hamlet, _please,_ _”_ Gertrude scolded, but her son was having none of it.

            “In fact, you know what?” he shouted. “Let’s talk about something much more important, let’s talk about _you!”_

            “Oh Hamlet, not again…”

            “No, no, not again! For the first fucking time, let’s actually _talk_ about how it was barely a _month_ after my dad died that you married his _brother,_ I mean – are you _kidding me?”_

            Gertrude’s expression was sour and disapproving. “Hamlet, I _know_ you were aware of the state of our relationship,” she said, in a voice that would cow any son. “Your father and I hadn’t got on for _years,_ and the only reason we stayed together was for you _._ You _know_ we were considering a divorce as soon as you’d settled into university, you _know_ we were getting things in order for it, why do you insist on bringing it up like I’ve committed some kind of cardinal sin?”

            “He _loved_ you!” Hamlet cried. “He _loved_ you, damn it, he loved both of us!”

            “Is everything all right in here?”

            It was the worst-timed entry Polonius could possibly have made. Hamlet rounded on him, angry and embarrassed at the tears in his eyes.

            “You know what, no, it isn’t!” he shouted. _“You’re fired!”_

            If Polonius’ face fell in shock, it was nothing to Gertrude’s outraged, stunned expression.

_“Hamlet!”_

            “No, mum, you stay the fuck out of this!” he threw over his shoulder, returning immediately to Polonius. “You’re inefficient, you make _terrible_ coffee, you misgender our trans employees, and you know what? _You’re fired._ I have a fifty-five-percent ownership of this company, I know I do, no matter what Claudius likes to think – ever since dad died I own the _majority_ of the business and the _majority_ of the decision-making power, and I’ve decided that you’re _not_ right for this job and you’re _not_ right for this business and _you’re fired,_ do you hear me? As of this fucking moment, you’re _fired!”_

            Silence descended on the close little space, shelved in by bags of coffee beans and sugar, as Hamlet refused to baulk under the simultaneous stares of both Polonius and Gertrude.

            “Well,” Polonius eventually said, reaching back with slow hands to untie his apron. “I suppose I should be going then.”

            “Oh, Polonius,” Gertrude started, “no –”

            He cut her off with a sad, stoic look. “It’s all right, Gertrude,” he said. “I can see when I’m not needed.”

            He moved out from the doorway, dropping his apron on a bench in the kitchen on his way out.

 _“Hamlet,”_ Gertrude frowned, “that was entirely unnecessary!”

            “It was _unnecessary,”_ he keened, “for you to marry my uncle right after dad died!”

            “We’ve been _over_ this!” she cried. “Again and again, I haven’t committed any crime, I didn’t do _anything_ wrong when your father was still alive! But he’s _dead._ He _died,_ Hamlet, even though none of us saw it coming, and if that just sped along some plans we’d made – the _three_ of us, he, Claudius, _and_ I – well there’s nothing to be ashamed of in that. _Nothing._ And your _fixation_ on my private life is frankly insulting; meanwhile we know _nothing_ about you! We’re _worried,_ Hamlet, that’s all. Just _worried_ about you.”

            Hamlet’s hands were balled into fists at his sides. “I don’t _want_ you to be worried about me,” he snarled. “I don’t _want_ you anywhere near me. I don’t _trust_ you, any of you! I have Horatio, I have Ophelia, I have _friends_ who can take care of me more than you ever could, more than Claudius would ever know how! Why can’t you leave me _be_ when I ask?”

            “Oh Hamlet…” Gertrude approached him with soft hands which gripped his arms, and for once, he didn’t resist. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I know I wasn’t always the best mother, and your father did his best, but – oh Hamlet, please understand…”

            He shut his eyes tight, failing to keep back tears. “I _understand,”_ he gasped, “that you want to take care of me, but I’m an _adult_ now, I don’t _need_ you like that anymore! I don’t _want_ you like that!” His arms came up around her shoulders at the same time that a sobbing gasp escaped his chest. “Please, just leave me be, let me live how I want and come to you when I’m _ready,_ that’s all…”

            It was enough – to get the words out, the sentiment out, finally, was enough. His back and shoulders fell all at once, collapsing into Gertrude’s bewildered, sincere embrace. Hamlet hadn’t cried to her since he was about thirteen, and he didn’t want to come crying to her now – but here he was, sobbing on her shoulder like a child because perhaps she knew, perhaps she finally understood, where he wanted them to stand.

            “Oh Hamlet,” she soothed, rubbing circles on his back. “Hamlet, I’m so sorry…”

            He was silent for a very long moment, but for the sounds of grief; until he finally took a shuddering breath, and spoke, not lifting his head. “You’ll tell Claudius?” he choked into her shoulder. “Just tell him, say I’m sorry, but I don’t want or need him there like that…”

            “I’ll tell him,” Gertrude sighed. “I’ll tell him as best I can.”

            Hurried footsteps signalled someone’s approach, and Hamlet sniffed and pulled away from his mum; but it was only Horatio who appeared in the doorway next, and Hamlet sagged with an unexpected wave of extra relief at the sight of his dark and careworn face.

            “Hamlet –” he began, with appalled brow and sympathetic mouth.

            “Please take me upstairs,” he practically groaned in reply. “I’m – I’m sorry, mum,” he added to her, “I just, I need to just –”

            “It’s all right, go upstairs,” she tried, with a small, tight smile. “I think –” She looked over his shoulder at where Horatio’s eyes were creased and bright. “Maybe that might be for the best…”

            Hamlet’s lungs emptied in a sigh, and he gripped his arms around Horatio’s waist and pressed his face to the other man’s chest, despite his advantage in height. Horatio’s hands came up to rest on his shoulders.

            “Thanks mum,” Hamlet whispered. She nodded, and let them go.

 

            They made coffee in Horatio’s flat – with the pumpkin spice blend Hamlet always vehemently denied liking but would drink by the bucketful – while Hamlet sat at the kitchen bench and stewed.

            “You know Ros has walked out too?” Horatio said, out of the blue, as he manoeuvred mugs and milk and shots of espresso. “And Gilly with her, of course.”

            “Oh, they’ll be back in two days’ time,” Hamlet sneered.

            Horatio turned to him. “Hamlet, please don’t treat this like a joke.” His face was soft, but the eyes within it were stern. “I know you’re going through a lot, but an outburst like that hurts other people in entirely needless ways.”

            “You know as well as I do,” Hamlet proclaimed, rolling his eyes, “that Polonius had to go.”

            “Maybe, yes,” Horatio conceded, turning back around to heat the milk. “But like that?” He arched an eyebrow over his shoulder; Hamlet, scowling, did not reply. “Gilly’ll be calling Ophelia round about now,” Horatio continued. “Then she’ll tell her brother. And you know what _he’s_ like.”

            “Annoying as hell?” Hamlet mumbled into his hand, where he leaned on chin and elbow on the counter.

 _“Impulsive.”_ With the milk hot, and Horatio smoothly carried it over to the waiting mugs. “He’ll be back from France within a week.”

            “And then he’ll come yelling at _Claudius_ to do something about it.”

            “He does technically head the company.”

            “But _I_ own it.”

            Horatio set aside the milk jug, and surveyed Hamlet from across the kitchen counter.

            “You know how this ends, don’t you?”

            Hamlet sighed, stirring three sugars into his coffee and reaching for the whipped cream and sprinkles, all already laid out for him. His shoulders fell.

            “Laertes comes back from France,” he narrated in a dull and bored tone. “He comes to Claudius seeking some kind of _retribution;_ Ophelia, meanwhile, backs him up, even if she disapproves of his methods.

            “Mum’s unwilling to get too involved, but she still thinks I should be one-hundred-and-totally-percent straight, and secretly wishes I was still with Ophelia – so she’s all for trying to bring the families to an understanding, even though she doesn’t realise an _understanding_ is the last thing Laertes is aiming for.

            “Claudius, meanwhile, is an annoying prick who’s trying way too hard to be my _real dad –”_ the words were accompanied by put-upon air quotes – “but doesn’t actually know how to be a father, so he’ll just blunder around trying to reprimand me but also care for me _but also_ let Polonius and his family have their say.”

            He sighed again, short but heavy, and Horatio laid a hand over his on the lino countertop.

            “So, to sum up,” Horatio said into his coffee (one sugar, only a small amount of milk) – “there’s a shouting match somewhere on the horizon.”

            Hamlet grimaced at the counter. “Well –” He looked up, and finally met Horatio’s eye. “I suppose we have to have it out sometime, right?”

 

            The reappearance of Osric in the café was nothing more than a sure sign of Laertes’ imminent return. Hamlet _hated_ them, both for their sycophantic tendencies and the fact that they owned _far_ too many puppies for one person. That, and their constant, mockingly-flirtatious remarks when Hamlet was around. This time, it was a _coffee pick-up line,_ of all things, when they swaggered into the shop at eight in the morning and immediately honed in on Hamlet’s table.

            “So, how d’you like your coffee then, princeling?”

            They sidled into the seat across from Hamlet, and reminded him of another thing he hated about them: their inane idea of calling Hamlet _princeling._

            “Dark, bitter and too hot for you,” Hamlet muttered, gripping his mug with a vengeance, and finished by spitting: “Like I like myself.”

            From behind the counter nearby, Horatio gave an innocent frown, and looked up from simultaneously making a skim mocha and proofreading a lab report.

            “Thought that was how you liked your men,” he commented, causing Hamlet to snort into his drink, and Osric – the distinctly paler, Japanese Osric – to scowl.

            “Laertes is getting back tonight,” they said, changing the subject with their usual lack of subtlety and grace.

            “Well, I hope you have a tonne of satisfying, welcome-back sex,” said Hamlet. Osric scowled again, considerably deeper.

            “We’re _not –”_

            “I know,” Hamlet sighed, “I really, really do.”

            Osric glared – _loudly –_ before simply pushing back out of the booth and marching away to the counter.

            “They’re totally gonna sleep with Laertes,” Hamlet commented, not without ire.

            “Not yet,” Horatio countered.

            “Don’t ruin my fun, ’Ratio, I need to put up with them _somehow.”_

 

            It happened the next night. Gertrude quietly suggested that Hamlet come down for “a talk” in the half-hour between the last day shift of Thursday and the opening night shift, and though her expression soured when Hamlet asked if he could bring Horatio, she still agreed.

            What they came down to find, at five-thirty that evening, was the tables at the front of the café arranged in a large rectangle, and, seated around it, not only Gertrude and Claudius, but Ros and Gilly, Polonius, Ophelia, and even Laertes, jetlagged and fuming, with Osric next to him. The only seats remaining were two in the middle of one side, between Gilly and Ophelia; Hamlet purposefully slumped next to Ophelia, who grimaced at him as he sat. Horatio shared a look of sympathetic long-suffering with Gilly, and sat. All of them had coffees steaming before them already, while a half-full pot stood in the middle of the table along with the sugar and a jug of hot milk.

            “Well?” said Hamlet politely. “Where should we start?”

            “We can start by mentioning how you _fired my dad,”_ Laertes growled without preamble. Osric rested their hand on Laertes’ arm, and he glanced at it before sitting back a fraction.

            “Hamlet,” Claudius intoned, “let’s just try to be civil, shall we?”

            Hamlet said nothing, only made a sound of outrage in the back of his throat and sat forward, one arm outstretched in Laertes’ direction. Ophelia scoffed.

            “Don’t be ridiculous!”

 _“He_ started it!”

_“Hamlet.”_

            He glowered at Claudius, then composed himself, and perched on the edge of his chair with his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat.

            “Look, Laertes…” He glanced up, and apologetically added: _“Polonius._ I’m – sorry. For what I did. I stand by my decision to… let you go; but I admit that I was… not myself. When I did. So, I’m sorry for my actions, and I –” He took a deep breath. “Would like to ask for your forgiveness, for acting rashly, instead of paying you the respect you deserve; and, Laertes, for disrespecting your dad. Um.”

            He glanced between Laertes and Polonius, across the table from him, then at Horatio, who nodded, and tried to suppress his dumbfounded expression. Polonius smiled – though a little thinly – and Laertes gave him a stern nod.

            “That’s all well and good, then,” he said, still growling a little, and Hamlet breathed a little sigh of relief; until – “but that still doesn’t cover what you did to my sister.”

            Chaos broke out. Hamlet threw his arms in the air with a shout of “What the _hell,_ man?!”; Polonius frowned and nodded, and agreed with his son; Ophelia looked practically murderous, yelling “Are we _really_ going to go through this again?!”; and Gertrude let out a tremulous cry of “I don’t _understand,”_ even as Claudius held her hand above the table and made low, soothing noises in her ear. Ros and Gilly looked embarrassed, and turned as if to chat between themselves; and Horatio finally broke, and, with a long groan, lowered his head onto his arms on the table. Hamlet noticed immediately, and rejoined the fray with a querulous _“Now_ look what you’ve done!”, as Ophelia sneered at her brother, spitting “Do you honestly think I don’t know anything about _contraception? Jesus…”_

            “All right,” Claudius called, then repeated it, louder, when no one seemed to pay him any heed. “All right, everyone, _that’s enough!”_

            His bark calmed the chatter. Ophelia snapped her mouth shut at exactly the same time, and in exactly the same manner, as Laertes; Polonius looked around; Ros and Gilly froze in place; Hamlet and Gertrude trailed away; and Horatio raised his head from his arms.

            Claudius turned to Ophelia, diagonally across the table.

            “Ophelia,” he said, with finality. “What is your take on the matter?”

            She huffed loudly, and met his eye. “We dated for less than a month, and had sex _once._ There were literally zero consequences – even if my _dear brother_ is so worried about my _chastity,_ I wasn’t even a virgin when we did it, and we’re still very good friends and perfectly happy with the situation. It’s _everyone else_ who keeps making a fuss out of it.”

            Claudius nodded, and turned again. “Hamlet?”

            His mouth screwed up. “What she said.”

            Claudius seemed to breathe a silent sigh of relief. “Now,” he crooned, “is there anyone else who would like to have their say on the matter – _in the knowledge –”_ he added, as both Gertrude and Laertes started to speak; they fell silent. “In the knowledge of,” Claudius continued, “the fact that their opinions have little or no consequence now that the two people involved are in cordial agreement?”

            Gertrude sighed.

            “I just want what’s best for my son,” she said, but in a manner that implied that her solution was very different – and more important – than her actual son’s. Hamlet’s shoulders dropped.

            “Mum, you want me to get married to a woman and have three kids and live happily ever after,” he whined. “And – hell, I _like_ Ophelia, but we’re not in love or anything, and sure I’m not a kid anymore, but I’m not thinking about _marriage_ just yet; and – well –” He sighed, and slipped his arm into Horatio’s above the table. “I’m happy where I am. You’ve got a bisexual son in a relationship with a man, Jesus, surely that’s not so impossible to comprehend!”

            He looked at her with pleading eyes, and though her mouth was still a little moue of discontent, she relented. Hamlet held Horatio’s arm a little closer, while Claudius again took charge.

            “Anyone else?”

            “I don’t like it,” Laertes spat. “I don’t like what he did.”

            Ophelia actually put her face in her hands. _“Laertes,”_ she moaned, muffled, “it’s not _about_ what you like. And it’s not about what _he_ did.” Cracks opened up between her fingers and palms, her eyes catching her brother’s and her mouth now unfettered. “I have a life,” she insisted. “I’m a grown-up. Get used to it.”

            Laertes opened his mouth as if to argue, but Polonius put his hand on his son’s shoulder, and pointedly raised his eyebrows. Laertes stayed silent.

            “Good,” said Claudius. “Now. About Hamlet’s… state of mind.”

            Immediately, Hamlet’s arm left Horatio’s, and he leaned across the table.

 _“No,”_ he bit out. “No.” Claudius started to protest, but Hamlet overwhelmed him. “No, no, no, no, _no,_ we are _not_ having this conversation. I spoke to mum about it, and that is all I’m going to say to you on the matter, and _no,_ we’re not going to talk about it with _everyone here!”_

            “Hamlet,” Claudius tried to say, “we’re only worried about your health –”

            “Then don’t try to talk about it with half the fucking _shop_ around!” Hamlet cried. “Not with a-whole-nother family, not with Ros and Gilly –”

            “Hey!”

            “No offence. But still! Jesus, you’ve already had them practically _spying_ on me, now you wanna air all my grievances for half the neighbourhood to hear?!”

            Ros and Gilly averted their eyes, even as Gertrude said, “Now, Hamlet, it’s hardly _spying –”_

            Uproar again. Ophelia nearly _shrieked_ with anger about her email being hacked, Ros and Gilly tried to defend themselves, and both Hamlet and Horatio – although the latter somewhat more civilly – started to list instances of the others’ infringements on Hamlet’s boundaries.

            “– you read my _personal correspondence –”_

 _“– these two_ asking weird questions, hired at _just_ the right moment –”

            “– we only did what we were _told_ by our _employer,_ you think we _liked_ being used for –”

             “– neither of you have even _bothered_ talking to me, I mean, I’m his _partner_ for goodness’ –”

            “Ophelia,” joined in Polonius’ quiet and stern voice, “we were only doing what we thought was best for you.”

            With a sudden and silencing movement _,_ Ophelia scraped back her chair, stood up, and slammed her palms down on the table.

            “I AM _SICK_ OF PEOPLE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!”

            The whole table fell potently quiet, as Ophelia glared down at her father and brother.

            “All right, I get it!” she shouted, and glanced over at Claudius and Gertrude. “I get it, you all want what’s best for your kids, but you know what? _Maybe we don’t need you for that._ We’re all adults, we have our own lives, we’re allowed make our own decisions and mistakes! And I’m _sick_ of trying to pretend that the most important people in my life are my dad, and my brother, and my stupid ex-boyfriend, and what _they_ want from me! Both of you, both of these _awful, over-protective_ families! I mean – what’s so worrying about letting me actually become a person in my own right?! As opposed to being your good little _daughter,_ your virtuous _sister,_ your dutiful _wife-to-be_ or whatever _–_ can’t I just be _Ophelia_ for once?”

            She was breathing heavily, now, and looking down at them all in a mixture of distress and accusation. No one dared to say a word, but Laertes and Polonius looked distinctly ashamed, staring down at the table, while Gertrude had begun to blush. Ophelia sighed out a harsh breath, and wiped her hands over her face, her fingers stalling over her eyes.

            Out of nowhere, Polonius stood, slow and unsteady. He watched his daughter breathe for a moment, and his mouth tightened in his frowning face.

            “I’m so sorry, Ophelia,” he said. “I thought I was doing right by you – but I realise now that was no excuse.” He nodded to the rest of the table. “I am going home,” he added. “Good evening.”

            He pushed away his chair, and turned from them, the bell above the door tinkling with his exit. Silence reigned for a long and extremely awkward moment, until Ophelia spoke.

            “You know what, fuck this, I’m done,” she muttered, with a little shaking of her head. She leaned down, grabbing her bag from the floor. “I’ll see you guys around,” she said to Hamlet and Horatio, then swept around the edge of the table and out onto the street. Again, the bell tinkled, and the blinds clattered against the windows at the shutting of the door.

            Coffee had sloshed over the edges of cups in the wake of Ophelia’s outburst, but no one showed any sign of having noticed.

            “So…” Hamlet intoned into the silence. “Are we done then?”

 _“Not yet,”_ said Gertrude, in the kind of tone that implied she knew exactly when, where, and how Hamlet was planning to escape.

            “Um,” Laertes bit out – “does anyone mind if I…”

            Gertrude bit back a sigh, and Claudius nodded imperiously Laertes’ release. The young man made to stand, but was stopped by a sudden chattering from Hamlet.

            “We’re cool though,” he babbled at Laertes – “right? I mean, you get it now. Right?”

            Laertes stared at him as if he’d just announced his ascension to the throne of Denmark.

            “Call me,” Horatio said into the silence. Laertes’ gaze latched onto him. “If you need someone to talk to, someone less personally involved – I’d be happy to listen, and help where I can.”

            Laertes’ wide eyes were shocked, but the fall of his shoulders infinitely grateful. Osric looked _murderous._

            “Thanks,” Laertes mumbled, as he jerked back his chair. He knocked the table with his knee as he stood, and tried to catch the cappuccino which rolled onto its side. Coffee sloshed around, and Laertes muttered and stuttered some more as he simply grabbed a handful of napkins, threw half of them at the mess, and turned to leave, almost walking into the door as he did.

            Osric followed him without another word, catching onto the door just before it closed and hurrying out into the night.

            “Right,” said Claudius, and turned his gaze back to the table. “Well.”

            “Can we, um –” piped up Gilly, raising one hesitant brown hand. “Can we go?”

            Ros grimaced, nodded fervently along with her.

            “Only,” Gilly added, “it’s getting a bit personal now, I don’t think we… really need to be here…”

            Gertrude cast them both a scathing look, but Claudius was a little more sympathetic.

            “Yes, all right,” he sighed. “Thank you for your help, and we expect you back in tomorrow for your usual shifts. This café has had more than enough histrionics, and we don’t want to lose two valued employees because of them.”

            His glare at Hamlet went unnoticed as the two women practically leapt from their seats, muttered apologies and farewells in Hamlet’s direction, and scurried from the shop. The bell tinkled, and the blinds clattered in their wake.

            “So,” said Claudius, and pinned Hamlet in his stern gaze. “Hamlet.”

            He slouched in his chair like a petulant schoolboy.

 _“Please,”_ added Gertrude.

            Horatio heaved a long and heavy sigh, and leaned forward over the table.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, in his quiet, kind, firm and lovely voice. “I know you’re worried, but he’s made very clear his stance on your involvement in his health and private life. He’s an adult now, and it is his choice.”

            Claudius almost sneered. “He still lives off his family’s money,” he added. “Still lives under what’s technically his _family’s_ roof.”

            Horatio raised a sceptical brow, just toeing the line of impoliteness. “Is he?” he said. “He lives with me, upstairs. And in case you’ve forgotten, I pay full rent for those rooms. They’re paid for without your –”

            “If you don’t mind my saying,” interrupted Claudius, in a tone which implied that Horatio would very much mind – “what right do you have to comment on our son’s conditions? After all, you’re only a poor physics student. _We_ barely know you.”

            Horatio blinked once at him – watched by Hamlet’s stunned and offended gaze – and sat back in his chair.

            “What,” Hamlet seethed, “the _fuck.”_

            “He’s right, Hamlet,” Gertrude soothed. “If you’d only –”

            “We have been _dating,”_ Hamlet growled, “for almost _two years._ We _live together.”_

            “Well, you can hardly call it dating when he’s spending three months in Germany every other semester –”

            “Now, Gertrude, you and I know well enough how a long-distance relationship can be maintained –”

            “That’s _entirely beside the point!”_ Hamlet shouted over his uncle. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and you know what? If you’d had any interest in getting to know him, _we would have let you!_ For _six months –_ ’Ratio, back me up here, six months, that first six months –”

            Horatio nodded his support, and Hamlet seemed to flare up even further.

            “We _asked_ you!” he cried. “We invited you out for dinner, over for coffee, to meet in the shop, _anything!_ You and dad, you and – and _him –”_ he nodded at Claudius – “every other week, every month, we asked if you wanted to meet him properly, make it formal, and you _never did!_ Every time it was _‘oh, I have work’,_ or _‘oh, that can’t be convenient with your lectures, dear’,_ or – or – or _‘what happened to that nice girl of yours, Polonius’ daughter?’_ Every time! You made some stupid excuse, because you were _so fucking uncomfortable_ with the idea of your son dating a man that you just – I dunno – couldn’t bring yourself to face it or whatever – and now – _now –!”_

            “Okay, so maybe we _were_ uncomfortable with it!” Gertrude snapped, flushing. “And now we’re not, and we have every right to ask –”

            “No! No you don’t!” Hamlet yelled, his hands flying wildly in emphasis. “That’s literally what I’m saying here! We gave you every fucking opportunity and you chucked it away because you didn’t give enough of a shit about me to care about my fucking _boyfriend,_ now when it looks like you can put your fucking – attend to your _neglected parental duties_ or what-the-fuck-ever, you think you can suddenly say _‘oh, but we’re_ worried’ and I’ll just let you back in or something?! You had your fucking chance, we gave you that, and if you were too fucking _bigoted_ and _uncomfortable_ to take it, then that’s your fucking fault, and we have _no_ obligation to let you in now!”

 _“Hamlet,”_ Claudius growled, “do _not_ talk to your mother in that way!”

            “SHE HAD HER CHANCE!” Hamlet screamed over the scrape of his chair as it jerked back with the force of his convulsion. He was leaning over the table, one hand clenched on its edge and the other outstretched in Gertrude’s direction. He flailed it then at Claudius as he added, “And so did you! So did all of you, and you fucking left it all, didn’t give a _shit_ about what I wanted – I’m under _no obligation,_ do you understand me?! I don’t have to respect you, I don’t have to obey you, I don’t have to let you in if I don’t want to – _no obligation,_ you hear?” There were tears in his eyes now, and Horatio’s entire being had fallen in sympathy beside him. “Nothing, you have _no right_ – not you, not him –” he nodded at his mother and uncle – “not dad, not even now he’s dead, I don’t –” He sobbed, and the arm still held in the air began to sag. “I don’t have to do _anything_ for you if it means I can’t – I can’t even let myself feel _happy_ anymore without feeling guilty about it –”

            Horatio had entirely cut the stunned Claudius and Gertrude out from his attention. He made soothing noises with his mouth, a hushing, humming counter-tone to Hamlet’s shouts, and brought his hand up to rest upon and bring down Hamlet’s own gesturing arm; and just as Hamlet seemed to break, Horatio surged forward in his chair, and caught his sagging body.

            “You have no right,” Hamlet hiccuped, his reddening eyes still on his family even as he twined his awkward arms around Horatio’s neck and shoulders. Horatio shushed him and held him as he finished. _“No right…”_

            At last, then, Hamlet turned his face into Horatio’s shoulder and, sobbing, latched entirely onto him. Horatio tugged him as close as he could in their awkward positions on the wooden chairs, and hushed him still, with warm, quiet noises in his ear and a hand through his lank hair, and the skin of his cheek dry and sheltering at Hamlet’s temple. In the sudden silence, Gertrude took up her cup of coffee with a shaking hand and took a long draught of the brew; at the same time as Claudius stood with a long sigh and, of all things, drew out his wallet.

            “We’ll be sending you to a psychotherapist,” he said, in that stern and unavoidable way of his, counting out a small wad of yellow-gold bills.

            Gertrude spat out her coffee. Horatio’s hand froze at the nape of Hamlet’s neck, and Hamlet’s eyes snapped open wide as his fingers twitched and clenched in the back of Horatio’s shirt.

 _“Claudius –”_ Gertrude hissed – but not quickly enough.

            “What the _fuck,”_ Hamlet growled, voice shuddering into a whisper. He stared, appalled, at the money Claudius placed on the table, and disentangled himself from Horatio’s arms to push himself away from the table. His chair legs crunched and scraped against the floor, until the whole chair fell back with a clatter and he stood. “What the _fuck!”_

            Gertrude’s cup rattled back into its saucer as she dropped it, and shot to her feet.

            “Claudius, _no –”_

            “Your son needs help,” said Claudius firmly. “And if he won’t accept it from you, then –”

            “THEN _THAT’S WHAT HORATIO’S FOR!”_ Hamlet screamed, both hands in his hair. “How many times do I need to _say_ this, oh my _God –”_

            Horatio stood, and stepped forward, one hand on Hamlet’s trembling arm. “Sir,” he said to Claudius, with a quiet solidity which could rival even his sternness – “you need to leave.”

            “I’m only doing what I must,” Claudius said to his wallet.

            “He has an _allowance,”_ Horatio insisted. “He has savings from his previous job, and is looking for employment, on top of which he has my own funds, as well as the non-financial support of myself and Ophelia, now you are only distressing him, sir, I must ask you to _leave –”_

            “My own shop?” Claudius countered, with a sharp glance at him. “You, a worker, are ordering me to leave _my own shop –”_

            “IT’S NOT YOUR FUCKING SHOP!” Hamlet screeched, stepping forward. His arm jerked out of Horatio’s grip as he slammed both hands against the table – once with palms, then once with curled fists, twice, three times, each with a resounding _bang_ and a clatter of cups. “IT’S NOT,” he gasped. “IT WAS DAD’S, AND NOW IT’S MINE, YOU HAVE MANAGEMENT BUT IT’S _NOT – YOUR –_ _SHOP_ _!”_

            His last words were punctuated with three more crashes of his fists upon the table. When he stopped for breath, Horatio turned and slid into place before him, gathering up his hands within his own and holding them firm, and whispering “There now… there now…” up to him from an earnest and terrified face. In Hamlet’s outburst, his coffee cup had slid off the table and smashed on the floor, spilling dark, unsweetened blood upon the floor. It was seeping into Horatio’s shoe.

            Gertrude’s mouth was tight.

            “You can catch a taxi home,” she snapped, even though her eyes were still on Hamlet. Claudius, aghast, stared at her, and after a moment, she met his gaze with the steel of her own. “We’ll talk there.”

            Without another word, she snatched up the money Claudius had placed so deliberately on the table, and spun on her heel and out of the shop. Though there should have been absolute quietude in her wake, the blinds still rapped against the shuddering windows, and Hamlet’s breathing was heavy and wet in Horatio’s arms. After a very long moment, however, it all seemed like silence in comparison to the raw _shout_ which left Claudius’ throat, and the shattering of his cup as he hurled it against the café wall.

            Nothing happened – neither Horatio nor Hamlet moved, and anyway, they were paid no heed. Then Claudius was turning in place, his fine suit rumpled and flecked with coffee; and left. He slammed the door shut behind him, hard enough to finally shatter one of the over-worked panes of glass in its upper half. Hamlet hiccuped in Horatio’s arms.

            Then, the door was pushed open, scratching slowly over the broken fragments of glass on the floor, to reveal Fortinbras – first of the evening shift – looking first apprehensive, then confused, then utterly stunned: an expression which quickly merged into horror.

            Horatio closed his eyes for just a moment, and sighed. He placed a quick kiss on Hamlet’s brow before stepping back, and walking around to retrieve the mop and bucket from behind the counter.

            “I am so, so sorry,” he said gravely, as he handed the mop over to his new colleague. “You’ll be given double pay for the shift, and the door will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon.” He stepped back towards Hamlet, and said again: “I am _so_ sorry.”

            Then, with assured and gentle arms, Horatio ushered the sighing Hamlet to the back of the shop, and up the stairs to their shared flat, to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people had a hand in making this fic. Contributions were made by plenty of my friends, on- and offline -- too many for me to recall right now. Most notably, however, this fic would not exist without my good friend [Isy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorde), with whom the concept was begun. To her, many, many thanks!


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